


Exxact's Very Imperial Valentine's Fills

by Exxact



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: A Very Imperial Valentines, Cover Galen Erso in Lizards 2k17, Early Post, F/F, Femslash, Imperial Prom 6 BBY, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Rogue One Spoilers, Scarif Spoilers, averyimperialvalentines, human/non-human - Freeform, star wars femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-21 08:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9540572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: My collection of (mostly) fluffy fills for for @badsadspacedads and @saltandlimes' event.NSFW days: 1, 2, implied in 4 and 7.





	1. Early Treat: Surprise Inspection, Galen/Thrawn + Ysalamiri

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t finished the last chapter of “By Thunder, Kinship” yet because I’ve been busy writing and editing these ficlets. While I was doing just that, I realized that I'd basically written two fills for Day 2. Because you’ve all been so sweet, I thought I’d share this one a week early and let there be two days of Pryce/Tua in a row. 
> 
> Content Note: This is set in the same AU as ”By Thunder, Kinship”, so the Galen/Thrawn relationship isn’t healthy, but nothing violent, graphic, etc. is discussed. This is about as fluffy as I could make them, but it’s still built on a background of Stockholm Syndrome, power imbalances, and gaslighting.

“Ah, Lord Vader.  Captain Pellaeon was quite surprised by your arrival in this sector, and even more so by your urgent transmission.”

 

Thrawn make no move to rise and bow, watching while Vader keeps the length of the table between them.

 

“Your fleet is needed, Grand Admiral,” Vader says in lieu of a greeting, remaining in his position as though he cannot bring himself to step closer to Thrawn. “It will join Death Squadron, helping to secure the construction site of a large battle station.”

 

Thrawn suppresses both a scoff and a shiver of protective need at the concept. _Surely, this one will end no better than the last._ He strokes the downy fur of the creature atop his shoulders, contemplative.

 

“I will, of course, do as the Emperor wishes. When and to what coordinates is the _Chimaera_ to jump—“

  
  
“What is that creature you hold?” Vader’s interruption is voiced is as tonelessly as ever, yet there is no mistaking his irritation.

 

“Ah, my lord, I’m quite pleased you ask. It is a ysalamir, an animal from Myrkr known in the region for manipulating the Force—specifically by repelling it. Though they posed an obstacle to their command, the Jedi afforded them a certain respect.”

 

Vader’s hand quivers above his lightsaber hilt for a moment before it settles back by his side.  Thrawn nods, waiting until Vader is still before continuing. “It is recorded that their order even named a form of lightsaber combat after them. Makashi, I believe it was called.”

 

“There are no more Jedi in the galaxy," Vader's words are rehearsed, nearly comical in how unconvincingly they're recited. "Your involvement in matters concerning the Force will serve only as a distraction from the larger threat the Rebellion now poses. Dispose of it.”

 

“An experiment, Lord Vader, nothing more,” Thrawn replies lightly. “A war such as the Rebellion wages requires innovative tactics. I seek only to serve the Empire through my singular abilities in developing such, just as you have through implementing your own.”

 

Vader’s rasp echoes in the stale air as he considers his response, Thrawn’s eyes never leaving the obsidian lenses that conceal Vader’s own.

 

“I do not like the Force’s pull upon this ship. Grant Death Squadron half of your fleet and remain in this sector to await further instruction.”

 

Thrawn nods, his fingers slipping from the ysalamir’s coat to interlace atop the table. “Of course, Lord Vader,” he calls to his retreating form. “And please, do not hesitate to request the _Chimaera_ ’s service to your endeavor again should the need arise.”

 

+

Only once Vader’s ship is out of range does Thrawn leave the conference room and return to his quarters, Sycorax sleeping upon his shoulder. Her weight is grounding, steadying him against the thrill of the success of multiple objectives in one bold, elegant maneuver.

 

_The ysalamiri have proven to be as powerful as Karrde had claimed._

_Vader’s fury will not clash with his own command._

_His flagship’s presence will ensure this sector’s continued compliance._

 

“My dear, she did beautifully!”

 

_And Galen will remain ignorant to the Empire’s newest use of his genius._

 

Galen’s brows raise as he looks up from his place seated on the floor, incredulous. “Truly? A single one of them frightened Darth Vader away? And Sycorax, at that!” He laughs, deep and unguarded, setting aside a cup of sap and drawing Thrawn down into a kiss. “I wouldn’t believe she had it in her,” he murmurs, kissing Thrawn gently again before continuing, “but you've returned to me with your neck intact. I’ll just have to take your word for her success.”

 

Thrawn smiles, leaning down to stroke the neck of one of the four ysalamiri happily clinging to the front of Galen’s robes. Sycorax lifts her head, sniffing each of her young in turn before climbing onto Galen’s shoulder to join them.

 

“My gift, I do believe his quick retreat was spurred on by more than just the one.”

 

 


	2. Day 1: "Your Empire Needs You!", Tua/Pryce

Governor Pryce’s gaze seems to follow Maketh as she props the datapad against her pillow, every bit as piercingly triumphant as it is in life. This newest poster shows her standing in profile, her features made even more striking by a stylized angularity that emphasizes the jut of her breasts, the fullness of her thighs. 

 

Maketh stares at the image, slipping her hand into her pajama trousers quickly, before she can chide herself for this once again. She’s slick and smooth against her own fingers and imagines kneeling before Pryce in this state, eyes downcast, outwardly content with the privilege of such closeness. But Maketh’s mind is greedy tonight, spurring her thoughts towards the weight of Pryce’s breasts in her hands, the slivers of heated skin peeking through Pryce’s tunic as she unbuttons it with perfect care.

 

What would such a woman look like without the strength of her uniform, writhing in pleasure upon a bed as Maketh is doing now? Maketh closes her eyes, the power of the image on the datapad surpassed by the eagerness of her imagination. Does she indulge in this act as well, ending her long days under a pile of bedclothes, touching herself to holoimages? Maketh shudders at the thought of Pryce studying the same poster later tonight, focusing her attentions on the small cameo in the lower right corner. Does Pryce desire Maketh’s veneration in the same fashion that Maketh desires to give it? Shame at her own narcissism bleeds away into arousal as she pictures Pryce rubbing herself roughly to the fantasy of bright blonde hair under her fingers, Maketh’s delicate lips and elegant hands toying with her cunt. 

 

Maketh comes in a short spasm, shaking with the overwhelming sensations her thoughts have provoked. She is silent save for the creaking of the bed underneath her, panting out a breath of relief as her body eases into the warmth of the moment. 

 

The data pad glows hot beside Maketh’s cheek, red with its low-energy warning. Sighing, she powers it off without looking at it, unable to meet Pryce’s eyes.


	3. Day 2: Surprise Inspection, Tua/Pryce

Maketh falls into a light sleep for several hours, the moons rising in a steady arc outside of her window. She slips in and out of sensations more than she dreams, feeling one moment as though she is being held down on her bare belly, a fullness inside her cunt; the next, a touch lingers along her clothed breasts in her office, unhurried.

 

“Minister Tua, this is Governor Pryce,” Maketh’s com link shrieks, nearly sending her into an early grave from shock. “Do you copy?”

 

Alarm rises thick in Maketh’s chest at the urgency in Pryce’s voice. “I-I do, Ma’am,” she manages, tugging the blankets closer to herself and wincing at the fresh slickness between her legs.

 

“The datapad containing the official copy of Lothal’s newest Imperial propaganda has been reported missing. It also contains a classified message only I am cleared to read.  Insurgent activity is suspected.”

 

Maketh can manage little more than a sputter, her face taunt with fear where the datapad’s surface reflects it back to her.

 

“Tua? I am with Agent Kallus and four of his men outside your apartment. Remain calm, we are entering now.”

 

Maketh hears a blunt, crackling thud but she is frozen with anxiety, unable to fathom how any part of this moment has come to pass. There is a rush of noise, her own cry, and then suddenly, horribly, Agent Kallus and four armed stormtroopers are standing at the ready to secure her apartment. Pryce is behind them, slipping easily around their weapons towards the foot of Maketh’s bed.

 

“What is this?” she hisses, leaning forward, her face centimeters from Maketh’s own.

 

“I, oh! Oh no, no…Ma’am, I have the datapad right here. I, well, rather wasn’t aware it was the original copy when I took it. My apologies for any misunderstanding! I didn’t even know of the message it contained! I simply liked the image, and, well…” Maketh trails off, wincing and hanging her head in complete humiliation.

 

Pryce’s expression remains hard. “No, you wouldn’t have stolen it. You do not have the clearance code or the abilities needed to make it of any use.” Her voice is low, nearly amused. “You are loyal to your Empire.”

 

“Y-yes, of course,” Maketh stammers, watching as Pryce’s eyebrows lower slightly, though she does not back away from the bed. “Loyal to the Empire and to you, Governor. Always.”

 

Pryce’s eyes dart towards Kallus and his troopers, plucking the datapad from Maketh’s pillow. “That knowledge gives me pleasure, Minister.”

 

Maketh feels as though she is struck speechless, her mouth quivering while her mind soaks in Pryce’s closeness, her flicker of a smile, the compliment that verges on obscenity. Pryce has retreated back to an easy posture, datapad in hand. She mutters something to Kallus, and Maketh winces at his unwavering stare.

 

“Would, ah, would you and the personnel with you care for a cup of caf?  Agent Kallus, stormtroopers?"

 

Neither Kallus nor his squadron respond beyond one trooper raising a hand that is quickly knocked down by Kallus.  Pryce's smile grows wider, her lips twitching with what Maketh fears is knowing.

 

“Pretty manners, but no.” Pryce sighs, and Maketh feels herself shudder at the sniff Pryce exhales slowly afterwards, as though she were savoring the scent of Maketh’s lingering slickness. “Gentlemen, you may leave and wait for me outside.”

 

Pryce turns to look behind her just as she reaches what remains of the door. “We will discuss this tomorrow over dinner in my quarters. Unless you’d prefer to explain yourself to me in the officer’s cafeteria?”

 

Maketh manages to keep her voice mostly dignified, at least to her ears. “No, Ma’am. I would not.”

 

Maketh watches the swing of Pryce’s hips until she disappears down the stairs. Only when she hears the purr of a land speeder take off towards the Ministry does she let out an anxious giggle, her cheeks glowing pink with the thrill of tomorrow.

 


	4. Day 3: Undercover/Fake/Secret Relationship, Tarkin/Piett

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, they can't all be happy, can they?

This Empire Day is no different than any of the others Piett has attended on Coruscant have been, sparkling and sterile under the glow of floating transparasteel lights. He turns to glance at the empty chair beside him, grateful for Ozzel’s wife and her penchant for Arkani tango that she never fails to mention to him every year, her dull eyes flashing into brightness before being interrupted by her husband.

 

Unscrutinized now, Piett immediately scans the ballroom and tables for the newly-appointed Grand Moff Tarkin. He does not like to think on this habit of searching intently for Tarkin every Empire Day, always to be found among the higher naval officers and a smattering of Eriadu elite. Piett would never contemplate approaching him, of course—while Tarkin had spoken to him occasionally, he would hardly be expected to recognize a junior officer who served under him a decade ago—but the ritual is certainly better than looking at drunken dirtpounders or Ozzel staggering against his wife.

 

 _The lash and the lure,_ he remembers sharply, as he does every year when Tarkin glances across the room, his eyes skimming lightly over Piett’s table before returning to study Admiral Thrawn’s bright glare of blue several yards to Piett’s right.

 

Tarkin’s indifference is expected, but it still brings with it a stinging sort of ache. Piett is a shred of a man without Tarkin’s height to give him nobility, but he has managed to occupy himself regardless, first with Enda in his twenties and then with Joseff until that terrible crash. Now, he is mostly content in his solitude, polite without eagerness, reserved with a gentle sort of detachment. Being such, in many ways, makes life more comfortable.

 

Piett sighs into the remains of his braised nerf. He is certain that his perception of Tarkin is inaccurate, clouded with memory and projection like a choked atmosphere upon entry, but he cannot resist the familiar quiet dream that, smiling neatly as Ozzel and his wife return, will be enough for tonight.

 

_“Firmus, I thought you’d run off on me! Whatever are you doing over here?”_

 

_Piett grins mischievously, doffing his cap. “Simply paying my respects to the crew of the Executor while you were ignoring me for that upstart Needa.”_

 

_“As though you weren’t once so eager to prove yourself as well, dear boy.” Tarkin’s voice is low, intimate despite the thickness of the crowd. “And how is old Ozzel?”_

 

_“As ear-gratingly pompous as ever, I’m afraid. Would you care to ensure my safe departure from his tractor beam with a dance? You may be my only hope.”_

 

_Tarkin kisses him lightly on his forehead, gathering Piett onto his arm. “I rather had something better planned, my dear, if you do not mind leaving these festivities behind.”_

 

Every Empire Day Piett indulges himself in wine and this scenario, and every morning afterwards he does not allow himself regret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -"The lash and the lure" refers to a Tarkin quote from Lost Stars: "You see, Piett? We should never hesitate to use the lash, when necessary—but there are moments when the lure is even more effective.”


	5. Day 4: Accidental Uniform Swap, Tua/Pryce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alternate Title: Imperial Prom Played Seriously

 

“Smile, now,” Pryce purrs as Maketh eases herself out of the hovercab and onto the landing platform—a task easier said than done in the imitation shimmersilk gown she’s been fitted into instead of her usual trousers. The swirl of fabric scratches against Maketh’s ankles, but to be allowed to take Pryce’s hand while she disembarks is more than reward enough for any discomfort she feels.

 

Maketh had imagined that Pryce would remain in her uniform, as holoimages tell her that Moffs tend to do at such events. The reality of the situation is far more appealing to Maketh’s eyes, and she takes in the sight of Pryce’s figure in the high-necked silver gown just as greedily as she had moments ago in their assigned quarters. Her insignia plaque remains pinned to her left breast, shining proudly with her authority.

 

Pryce holds Maketh’s hand firmly for a moment before they walk towards the great doors of the palace, re-adjusting it into the crook of her elbow at the first flash of a holocam. The heat of Pryce’s bare skin against hers in such a public setting is intoxicating, and Maketh feels her legs shudder with pleasure, steadying herself against the sudden, blinding tableau.

 

“Come, my dear,” Pryce whispers through a dignitary’s smile. “We must show all the Empire that we represent far more than a backwater world.”

 

 

+

 _This_ , Maketh thinks with tears clouding her vision, _may be the worst night of my life_.

 

“Glory to the Empire!” a general shouts, flailing about with two of his inferiors and nearly dumping his glass of wine down Maketh’s bodice. She squeals, flailing directly backwards into some sort of potted monstrosity that she nearly mistakes for an interloping sentient.

 

Yes, she is surrounded by the Empire’s finest in a dazzling display of glamor, but it seems that half of these esteemed men and women are currently determined to make utter fools of themselves, doing everything from tormenting the serving droids to out-and-out _fornicating_ in the public fresher. _And the other half is no better_ , she reminds herself with a sniff, each one openly turning away from her attempts at friendly conversation; or, worse, doing so and then loudly berating her to their companions:

 

“Wasn’t Lothal given the old Base Delta Zero last year?”

 

“‘Asset planet’, my ass.”

 

“If that’s their finest, I say we jump a few Star Destroyers there tomorrow and take care of the problem!”

 

The more _explicit_ comments did not bear re-visiting, though it was the latest one from a caped vulgarian that had finally broken her resolve:

 

“Is that creature Piett’s? Trust _him_ to fail at hiring a whore!”

 

All this, and still not even a _glimpse_ of the Emperor, Grand Moff Tarkin, or Lord Vader!

 

Maketh extracts herself from the plant and surveys the room, finally spotting Pryce by the bar, unoccupied and stoic. She turns to Maketh with an understanding in her eyes, her glass of whiskey barely touched beside her. A rough tug on her arm, and Maketh is swept into one of the high command freshers, breaking into sobs the moment the door shuts behind them.

 

“What did they do to you, girl?” Pryce grits from between her teeth, clutching Maketh close.

 

“They’re t-terrible! Horrendous!” she whimpers against Pryce’s hair, trying to smooth it down when she worries that her tears will melt its pomade. “They said horrid things about Lothal and one of them, excuse my language, mistook me for a _certain sort_ of civilian!”

 

“The bastard,” Pryce hisses, her nails digging into Maketh’s shoulders. “I’ll show him how to speak to a lady of the Empire!”

 

“Oh, please don’t!” Maketh cries. “I don’t want them to hate me even more!”

 

Pryce sighs, her anger quickly dissipating into concern. She wipes at Maketh’s eyes and kisses her, soft but insistent. “You’ll need a thicker skin for off-world politics, my dear. Tonight was reasonably dignified.”

 

Maketh sniffles, reaching for a tissue that Pryce immediately seizes and uses upon Maketh herself. “I know, Ma’am,” she murmurs, eyes downcast as she turns away from Pryce, overcome by shame. “If I’ve dishonored you and Lothal tonight…”

 

“Never, my sweet little minister,” Pryce coos, raising Maketh’s chin and kissing her, possessive and thrilling.

 

 

+

Panting and naked, Maketh rubs her stinging eyes, wanting nothing more than to curl against Pryce on this undoubtedly filthy fresher floor and sleep off the effects of her night of high culture on Coruscant.

  
  
“Open,” a horrible gagging, followed by a splash of something foul just outside the door, “up you Navy fuckers!”

 

Maketh trills in shock, tugging on what she believes are her panties and thoughtlessly half-zipping herself into Pryce’s gown, cringing at the five inches of missing fabric at the hem. By the stars themselves, why had she been so willing to shuck her gown knowing full well the process of re-dressing in it? Pryce had simply been so _insistent_ , she thinks with a fresh ache in her belly, and who was she to argue with her superior commander?

 

Pryce groans beside her in what sounds worryingly close to defeat. “Drunken dirt-pounder trash,” she mutters, grabbing the flimsy gown and forcing the skirt upwards until the bodice’s left seam splits apart, the sleeves hanging limply at her side.

 

“Oh dear stars, I-I think it tore!” Maketh stammers, tears returning to her eyes.

 

“I can see,” Pryce grunts, reaching up to fasten the clasp on what was formerly her gown. “Pin my insignia plaque to cover it or rip it off and use the thing to pin the skirt into a bodice.”

 

Maketh’s nervous giggle is too loud to her own ears as she fumbles for her comlink, calling their hovertaxi to return. She may be ending the most glorious night of her life in humiliation, but the one person in the Empire she truly wishes to impress is holding her close and laughing at the flurry of blows upon the door.

 

“Damn the idiot!” Pryce finally growls, thrusting all of her weight against the door’s handle.

 

Maketh winces at the sight that greets her—an admiral knocked to the ground, his nose bloodied and his uniform covered in vomit.

 

Pryce offers Maketh her arm once again, her voice smug with amusement.

 

“After you, my dear.”


	6. Day 5: “Who’s in Command Here?”, Tarkin/Vader

Vader paces across the conference room, his hands clenching and re-clenching into fists.

 

“I can’t believe the disgusting manners of that girl. To insinuate that I am at your command!”

 

“A child’s petty insult, nothing more,” Tarkin replies, his eyes remaining fixed upon his datapad.

 

“She should be terminated for that act of treason alone.”

 

Tarkin’s lips twitch into a smile. He looks up from his message to the Emperor regarding Alderaan, taking in all of Vader’s rage with quiet amusement.

 

“She is of the Rebellion. Little more can be expected, even with her title taken into account.”

 

Vader lets out a hiss from within his chest, seemingly placated. _So childishly spiteful himself_ , Tarkin thinks as he beckons Vader forward with a tilt of his chin, remembering another willful girl and the young Jedi who had indulged her insolence.


	7. Day 6: Reassignment or Dangerous Assignment, Kallus/Zeb

  
Kallus passes through the ship’s common area, shaking his head at the mess of painted ammo, mechanical bits and bobs, and one of the C1-10P unit’s wrench apparatuses spilling off of the table. He stops, examining a blaster resting on the edge of the booth. _Is that the same make and model as Minister Tua’s had been? And is that a Clone Trooper’s holster beside it?_   He begins to dig through the pile, nearly knocking into Zeb when he straightens back up, a (rather well-made) mock insignia plaque in hand.

 

Kallus, against his better judgement, drops the plaque but does not walk away. He and Zeb share a tenuous sort of association, cautiousness permeating every interaction. It is not friendship, but neither is it the caginess that Kallus experiences from the rest of the _Ghost_ ’s crew. Perhaps it is the most he should expect from a camaraderie borne of a reluctance to kill one another, but Kallus often catches himself wishing for a closer bond with the person-er, being-largely responsible for righting his perspective. _The fulcrum_ , he thinks with a snort.

 

“Not a bad likeness of the ugly things,” Zeb growls, swinging himself onto the bench and dropping a holorecord into the pile of clutter. “But Sabine needs to nab a freighter or torch all of these rejects. No more room for my good records in my bunk.”

 

“Well, you’ll all have more space once I’ve left tomorrow on Sato’s mission. Supposedly I’m to be gone for several standard weeks, if not months. She can borrow my bunk for storage if she needs to.” Kallus gestures to the junk vaguely, trying to mask his disdain.

 

“Wouldn’t offer her that. Jam the door to your bunk instead or you’ll come back to a fresh paint job. Can’t guarantee it’ll be complimentary, either.”

 

Kallus snorts. “Yesterday, you warned me that I’m far more likely to be killed by her for blocking her access to raw materials than by the Empire for treason. And now you tell me to do just that. I’m beginning to think you’re trying to off me before the new recruits get their chance.”

 

Zeb lets out a huff of laughter, ears twitching from side to side. “I say lock the door and kiss me for luck.”

 

“I’m certain you’d like that,” Kallus snaps back, leaning his hand on a spare bit of table and feigning easiness. “But I can’t see how you’d save me from the girl’s wrath.”

 

“Hey, we’re both still alive after all the Empire’s shit, aren’t we? Pretty lucky, I think.” Zeb replies quickly, shifting in his seat. “But, heh, you have too much hair for my taste anyways,” Zeb scratches at his own sideburns, grinning when he hears Kallus’s laugh. “Shave ‘em and save it for when you come back.”

 

Kallus leans forward, feeling a mysteriously sticky glob slide onto his hand from within the pile. “I’ll consider it,” he says with a grin that he hopes is more “dashing scoundrel” than “boy who had his first kiss at 22”. He feels a burst of satisfaction at Zeb’s wide-eyed stare, leaving to go and wash off the viscous yellow-gold paint from his hands.

 

“Hey, yellow suits you!” Zeb calls from down the corridor.

 

Kallus feels the meteor in his vest pocket flicker, golden and pleasantly hot against his breast.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was my first crack at KalluZeb!


	8. Day 7: Public Displays/Declarations of Love, Tarkin/Krennic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Do public thoughts of suppressed fondness count for this prompt?

Every officer on the bridge of the station is silent as they enter into Scarif’s orbit, unable to do more without Tarkin’s command. The satisfaction of such is heady in Tarkin’s mind, perfection itself. Tarkin is not a man to believe in abstract feeling, but this is a knowledge settling within him, a law of nature finally established with brutal fact.

 

Krennic is on Scarif, of course, controlling the base’s garrison with little enough success. The blast of the laser will kill him instantly, no matter where upon it he happens to be. Tarkin shivers with remembrance at the vulnerability he could beat from Krennic’s prone figure and sputtering mouth, at the image of the vexing, grasping creature he’d taken far too many times for his own comfort.

 

“Wil!” he’d shouted once in provocation, the whine of his voice made momentarily bearable by the desperation it was coated in.

 

Uncle Jova’s command beats a bright truth through his thoughts.

 

_“Live like a beast, boy, and no event, no matter how harrowing, will ever be able to move you.”_

 

Tarkin focuses his eyes onto the base’s transmission tower, intent.

 

“Single reactor ignition. You may fire when ready.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Jova’s quote is taken directly from “Tarkin”. He’s inspirational proof that Wise Hermits in Star Wars aren’t always Jedi (or Maul covered in literal trash).


End file.
